


#StayHomeWriMo Shorts

by Cymry



Series: Grace [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: American Sign Language, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Comfort Food, Comfort Reading, Epistolary, House Plants, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mute Bucky Barnes, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recovered Memories, Short & Sweet, stayhomewrimo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:48:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23317879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cymry/pseuds/Cymry
Summary: A series of shorts based on Nanowrimo's #StayHomeWriMo prompts. I'll write any that I can make fit. A mix of shipping and gen fic to keep me sane in quarantine.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Grace [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1491905
Comments: 40
Kudos: 79





	1. Lasagne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day One Prompt: Write about a character who's stuck inside.

“It’s just a sprained ankle,” Sam said to the two super-soldiers looming over him. “I got all this from my mom. Now I got to get it from you two as well?”

Sam had arranged himself to his satisfaction on the couch, with his leg propped up on a stack of cushions. Phone by his right hand, remote by his left, a weekend of sports and binge-watching stretching before him. Not sticking that landing had been embarrassing and more than a little painful but Sam Wilson knew how to make the best of a bad situation.

“You going to be out long?” said Steve.

“A week. Just got to keep weight off it as much as possible.”

“If we can do anything.”

_ Anything _ , signed Bucky. Two thumbs outwards transitioning to two empty palms.

Now Sam, in his unofficial role as Cap Whisperer, knew what they were thinking. They were thinking about the sign language he got Bucky started on; the year-long hunt for Bucky before that; the mental health help. The fact that Sam had done all that because he wanted to seemed to escape the dynamic duo.

“Well, I wouldn’t say no to a beer out the fridge. Honestly,” he said as Bucky went to the fridge, “I’ll be fine. I’m due a lazy weekend.”

He should’ve known it wouldn’t sink in. The very next day, Bucky poked his head in Sam’s room.

“Hi, Sam,” he said. 

Sam remembered when Bucky could only speak when he slipped into Winter Soldier mode. The guy was working hard at it, and he was audible more and more these days. Of course, Steve got the most words out of any Avenger.

“Hey, man. What do you need?”

“We thought…” The rest of Bucky Barnes entered the room, his hands occupied with a large pan covered in tin foil. “Made you some food,” said Bucky.

“You didn’t have to,” was what Sam was going to say before his phone started ringing. “Hang on a second,” he said and Bucky went into the kitchen silent as a ghost. Maybe he shouldn’t protest too much anyway. From the faint delicious smell, it was probably Steve and Bucky’s homemade lasagna. Who knew all that Steve needed to throw himself into cooking was the miraculous return of his boyfriend with added food issues.

“Hi, Mom,” said Sam.

“How’s the leg? Are you eating?” she added.

“Yes, Mom, I’m eating. Hey, I’m about to eat food cooked for me by Captain America. How about that?”

Mom made some impressed noises. In Mom’s eyes, Steve could do no wrong. Even after all that Hydra business where the man had leapt from an Insight Carrier into thin air. These days it was Bucky’s job to yell - or angrily sign - at Steve.

“Sorry about that,” said Sam once he’d hung up the phone. “You know what moms are like, right?”

“Moms,” said Bucky. He closed the oven door and came back round to where Sam didn’t have to crane his neck to see him.  _ My mom loved Steve. _

“So does mine. What’s his secret?”

_ She never knew Steve started most of the fights he got in. _

“Sounds about right.” That _was_ lasagna. Sam wondered if there was a sign for it or whether you just spelt it in ASL. “Where’s Steve anyway?”

“Charity thing.”  _ They want Captain America _ , he did the official sign - a sweep of his left hand to mimic the shield - not his personal one for Steve,  _ not me. _

“He’d like you to go with him.”

Bucky signed  _ issues _ then a kind of all-encompassing gesture towards himself. He was in better shape than he was but selective mutism and touch issues were still a work-in-progress. Bucky was a good guy, but one unexpected clap on the shoulder and he’d take a swing without thinking about it.

“We all got your back if you want to. Anyone wants to step on your boundaries, they gotta go through the entire Avengers.”

Bucky accepted this news calmly and the two of them caught the Knicks game without saying much else. Before the timer went off, Bucky briefly vanished back to his place and brought back focaccia. Looking at that beautiful mass of garlic, rosemary, and sea salt, Sam realised that this was going to be a bad week for his waistline. Bucky put in on the counter ready and sat back down. He also had a notebook in his pocket, one with a soft-looking leather cover.

“New journal?” asked Sam, without asking what was in it. The man went through therapy journals fast.

“Birthday gift.” 

Bucky flipped carefully through the book until he found the page he wanted and handed it over to Sam. On the page was a delicate ink sketch of two people, a man standing and a woman sitting. The man had a hand resting on the woman’s shoulder.

“Steve did it for me. Things from before.”

“These your parents?”

“He did it from memory. From a photo that they had.” Bucky smiled in that way that made Steve melt, the one that was a little sad. “Ain’t he something?”

Sam could see the resemblance: Bucky’s dark hair and eyes from his mom, his chin from his dad.  _ This was a picture taken on their wedding day, September 1915 _ , said the caption in Steve’s neat cursive.

“You know, every time I get Steve alone, I always get to hear about how great you are.” Bucky snorted. “No, really. After your big handholding breakthrough, Steve bragged to me for a solid ten minutes.”

Bucky laughed then, head tipped back. Sam remembered Bucky walking straight into the reception of Avengers Tower, powered by nothing more than fumes. The lines on his face had been so deep laughter had seemed impossible.

“I know. What are we going to do with him?” Sam wriggled into a more comfortable position, handing back the book. “Hey, show me something else.”


	2. Car Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Two: Pick five words at random from different blog posts, tweets, and articles and use them all in a scene.

“How’s progress been this week, Mr Barnes?” Dr Eubanks smiled encouragingly at him over her pad of paper. “We were working on trying not to overthink so much.”

Bucky frowned. He took therapy pressed into one corner of the couch and he saw no reason to change that. Lying down, he wouldn’t be able to see Eubanks and the door at the same time. Sign language was easier sitting up, though FRIDAY had to translate either way.

“Spent a long time not thinking for myself at all,” he said, “The Asset- I mean, _I_ didn’t get to have an opinion on much.”

“No, of course not.”

She was going to ask about the game, Bucky just knew she was. It wasn’t as though she could have missed it. Bad enough to have to dissect your private moments in therapy, but having your therapist witness them was worse. And Steve hadn’t had to come and get him early from therapy for months.

“Been playing some pickup basketball now that the weather’s nice,” said Bucky to get it out the way. “Not allowed on the same team as Steve. Peak human performance gets spread out.”

“You looked happy,” said the doctor, after a long minute of silence. “If you don’t mind me saying so.”

Bucky had been happy out there in the sun, joining in the good-natured shit-talking. He’d been bouncing sunbeams off his arm and into Steve’s eyes when it had happened. A car in the parking lot took a corner wrong and drove into the back of another. Down went Bucky on his knees, heart pounding in his ears, shivering like mad. All over a minor fender bender.

“You find it embarrassing, I know, but this is a judgement-free space. Is there a particular incident that this brought to mind?”

“Car crashes?” Taking cars off the road with a well-placed gunshot, with explosives, with a single blow of his metal arm. People trying to get out of burning wrecks if they were unlucky enough not to die in the initial crash. “Doc, I got too many of those.” He could practically smell the scorched flesh and burnt rubber under his tongue. And always there was the weight of the dead, following him wherever he went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So my words were overthink, time, private, peak, game


	3. Love at First Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Day Three: Set your text to white and try writing in invisible mode.

“So yeah,” said Tony, tablet covered with maps and little icons, “I think we could go in from underneath. Because, hey, I don’t treat you guys enough. A lovely long walk in the sewer would be a great team-building exercise.”

“Those are service tunnels,” said Steve. “More of a chance of meeting somebody, but it’s drier.”

“What? The guy from the Great Depression is turning his nose up at a perfectly good sewer.”

“I don’t know what the Depression has to do with it.”

Ahead of them in the common area, Bucky and Sam were and chatting. Playing cards were scattered over the dining table. Their scorepad had a quick cartoon of Bucky with a little crown. So cards and chat had been going Bucky’s way today. It had been so long since Bucky had come in from the cold - yet also no time at all - but Steve was struck all over again by the fact that Bucky was alive and happy.

Bucky still had those finely honed assassin’s instincts that made him look over to see who was staring. And even if he was still shyer than he used to be, he could meet Steve’s dopey grin with a smile. 

Tony cleared his throat politely.

“We’re living in the rom-com that is your life, Cap, and I am loving it. I can practically hear the swelling music as you lock eyes across the kitchen.”

“What’s a rom-com?” asked Bucky as Tony started humming.

“Ha! Deja vu!”

“Romantic comedy,” supplied Sam. “Like movies.”

“They’re not making more movies of Steve, are they?” said Bucky, glancing down into his coffee cup.

“Not that I’ve heard,” said Steve. He reached over for Bucky’s right hand, warm from the mug and with the slow heartbeat under the skin. “They were awful anyway.”

“So we’re not getting to see the first meeting on the big screen?” said Sam.

“Cap and Bucky-bot’s fingers meeting over the last can of beans.”

“Tony-” said Steve, but Bucky frowned.

“No. No, that’s not how it happened.” His gaze unfocused, looking far into the past. This, unlike Steve going gaga for Bucky’s smile, didn’t happen so much these days. Now Bucky had an almost-complete memory, the good and the bad. “It was an alleyway. Something about…” The plates of his arm shivered. “A cat?”

“A kitten,” said Steve, almost holding his breath. “These two kids were trying to drown it in a puddle.”

“You had to make your own entertainment in those days,” muttered Tony, but Bucky was concentrating on the unfolding memory.

“I remember. You got in one good shot with a brick before I arrived, but there were two of them so…”

“So someone’s ass had to get pulled out of the fire again,” said Sam, probing gently. Helping tease the memory out the fog.

“I didn’t know him then,” said Bucky. “All I knew was these two kids were ganging up against this little kid. So I stepped in.”

Steve could remember kicking against an immoveable object when he heard the high, angry cry of “Hey! Pick on someone your own size!”.

“So I drive them off and it’s just me and this kid standing there with his nose bleeding all over his shirt and his eye twice as big. And I asked ‘you okay, kid?’ and he-” His face split into a broad grin. “Sam, you know what he says to me? This kid who I just saved? He says ‘I didn’t need your help, I had them on the ropes.’ What an asshole!”

Bucky laughed, in danger of spilling coffee over his metal fingers. Maybe Steve could have taken offence at the asshole comment, but he couldn’t find it in him to care.

“Sounds like a clear case of love at first sight,” said Sam.

“Of course,” said Bucky, suddenly deathly serious. “I know it was. That was who I wanted, for the rest of my life if I could get him.”

“And I thought twelve was early to be meeting your soulmate,” said Sam. But he was smiling. Steve felt a sudden and frightening tenderness for everyone here, for this place that had helped Bucky heal.

“There’s going to be no getting through to him now,” said Tony. “Okay, Cap. Thirty minutes break for a bite to eat and to get all the lovey-doveyness out of your system. Save yourself while you can Sam.”

“I’ll meet you back here.” Maybe Steve should have apologised, but he wasn’t a bit sorry for the opportunity to sit next to Bucky and lean in. Worth it, even with all the teasing about PDA he’d get from Sam later.

“You never told me that it was love at first sight.”

“Didn’t I?” said Bucky, smelling of hair products and coffee.

“And you were very confident you could get me.”

“I’m cute,” deadpanned Bucky. He smiled again, mismatched hands resting on Steve’s shoulders. “You got so big. But the face stayed the same.”

“A little less bloody.”

“Most of the time.”

“Most of the time,” repeated Steve. “But if a bloody face got me Bucky Barnes, then it was worth it.”


	4. Engraved

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Four: Write about a secret a character has been keeping.

Evidence: One (1) VHS tape

Logged: 14:37, 23rd May, Lanier Building

Timestamp: 4:13, 1st November, 1995 **(26:43)**

The victim, James Buchanan Barnes, is sat at a metal table. Both his arms are cuffed, the left one at the wrist, elbow, and upper arm. There are contusions on his neck and forehead and he appears in visible distress.

Unknown Male Voice: Asset, report.

Silence for 14 seconds.

Unknown Male Voice: [in Russian] Soldier, attend. Timber. Sword. Complication.

Silence for 7 seconds

Max Lanier: He short circuit or something? I thought I was paying you for some legendary assassin. 

Max Lanier comes into view of the camera.

ML: Anyone in there? Earth to the fucking Winter Soldier. [Directed off-camera.] Job’s half done and you’ve been more than half-paid.

UMV: A risk of conditioning. Sometimes he needs a reset. Like turning a computer off and on again. When the time comes he will be ready.

ML: Better be for the amount I’m paying you. I could’ve just strangled my ex myself.

UMV: Perhaps. But you would not have got through the security system or her bodyguard or her new husband. You would not have made it look convincingly accidental. Your business partner will also be accidentally dead by the end of the week. Allow me to work.

ML: Look, I’ll tell you just what I tell every wet behind the ears intern. In business and in life you got to take a firm hand.

He strikes James Buchanan Barnes in the face. While he massages his hand, Barnes looks up straight at the camera.

James Buchanan Barnes: Where?

UMV: You were assigned a target in the Manhatten area-

JBB: Where am I? Where’s Steve?

ML: What the fuck. [Unintelligable]

UMV: There was no Steve. The target was Catherine Boucher-

JBB: Captain Steven Rogers! Where is he?

He notices his restraints and starts to struggle against them.

JBB: Steve! What have you done with him, you Nazi fucks. Steve! Steve!

UMV: Captain Rogers is dead, Asset.

JBB: I don’t believe you. I don’t-

UMV: He drove a plane into ice, killing himself in the process. He’s been dead now for fifty-one years.

ML: Wait, is this-

JBB: No. No, he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t be. No. No!

James Buchanan Barnes starts to scream. He struggles against his restraints. In the process, the camera is knocked over and we get little information from the next ten minutes of film.

***

“It’s fake! None of this happened! Stark and the Avengers made this to discredit me and my company!”

Max Lanier, older now than he was on screen, was dragged away still screaming. Steve didn’t feel an ounce of pity for him. Bucky stopped the footage and ejected the tape. An agent with a plastic bag came forward, scooping it up and adding it to the long, long chain of evidence connecting people to Bucky and the crimes that had been committed against him.

Unlike Lanier, this room looked unchanged, if dustier and stale-smelling. Most likely they’d locked it up and hidden it for a very long time. It had been luck, and Bucky’s memories, that had led the Avengers here.

“You want to get out of here, Buck?”

“I’m okay, Steve. Just tired.” Bucky put the safety on his pistol and stashed it back in the holster. Since becoming an Avenger, he’d been given full weapons privileges. At the same time, he’d fired them infrequently. The former Winter Soldier was scrutinised very carefully. Steve was also watching him. This close to his past, a panic attack or a bout of disassociation was always a risk.

_ It’s been a long day _ , said Bucky’s free hands.

“We can go now if you want.”

Bucky shook his head.

_ Not yet. _ “There’s something I got to show you first.”

Bucky crossed the room, ducking under dusty ceiling lamps. The low ceiling and dark walls made the place look like a coffin. In the opposite wall, there was a steel door and behind it was a room, little more than an alcove. One wall was taken up by a narrow bed that might have fit Bucky, the floor space meagre enough for only one person.

“This was my room.”

The rust-brown stain on the thin mattress was blood. There were fist-sized dents in the metal walls and there was a drain in the middle of the room, half-hidden by the bed.

“It’s okay,” said Bucky, seeing something on Steve’s face. “I just need you to look under the bed.”

Steve squeezed himself in. Something in the drain stunk and it was worse down by the floor. But Bucky wanted him to look so look he would. At first, he saw nothing, but Bucky had been cautious. In the tiny gap behind the bed frame, he’d scratched Steve’s name over and over.

“Is it still there?” said Bucky, hovering in the doorway. Both hands were braced in the doorway like he was afraid someone would push him in and lock the door.

Steve reached out and traced the clumsy letters. Sometimes the letters were barely recognisable, written backwards or upside down. He could picture Bucky crammed into the small space, half-gone with mindwipes and torture, trying to keep the memory of Steve in his head.

“Yeah. Still there.”

“Mostly did them with a knife. A couple with my fingers.” Bucky took one hand from the door frame and extended it down to Steve. When he pulled Steve up, he kept ahold of Steve’s hand. “I wanted to  _ remember _ . They always tried to wipe you away, but I kept remembering. You know that, right?”

His grip on Steve’s hand was strong. Steve covered that hand with his own, imagining somehow reaching out to the Bucky of before. The one who desperately scratched Steve’s name into the wall over and over. Choosing to preserve Steve over anything else.

“Never doubted you for a second, sweetheart.”

“You probably should’ve, considering the mess it came from.” Bucky ducked his head. “Doubted myself a lot of the time. But if it’s here then…”

“You remembered. All those years and you remembered.”

“Seeing’s believing.”

Steve was tempted to pull Bucky close and kiss him all over, warm him up, cleanse him of this place and the people who hurt him. But there was a lot of SHIELD around. He’d wait until they got home, then he could cope with the situation by spoiling Bucky utterly.

“Hey,” he whispered and he pressed an ASL  _ I love you _ into Bucky’s hand. Bucky did the same, brushing it against Steve’s stomach, his chest until he felt Bucky had carved it into his flesh where it would be forever remembered.


	5. Eden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Go outside (if you safely can). Try to notice five things to write about.
> 
> Sadly, as I’m in quarantine, I couldn’t go outside so enjoy Bucky being inside.

For months after he returned, the only sleep Bucky got was in two-hour stretches twice a day. Every single time they were terminated by screaming nightmares. So they’d come to an arrangement, Steve and Bucky. Steve watched Bucky while he slept and woke him before any nightmares got traction. In return, Bucky did the same for Steve. It worked. At least Bucky got some sleep and he was less anxious when he could check in on Steve.

London had changed that without any warning. Bucky had had a panic attack while on monitors then slipped away into London escaping a journalist. When Steve had found him - incongruous in his Kevlar sitting in sunny St James Park - he’d been so tired he’d been shaking. And he lay down on the quinjet’s stretcher and slept from the Irish Sea all the way to New York City.

For about a week afterwards he did a full eight hours every night from ten to six on the dot. Steve knew this because their roles reversed. He became the one getting up at night, peering into Bucky’s room to see him softly breathing, both his hands still, curled slightly atop his chest like he was ready to sign. Then Bucky started to sleep longer, getting up later, napping during the day. Any piece of furniture soft enough and horizontal enough was fair game. Sam called it a housecat phase.

Bucky slept and slept. His unread books started to pile up in paper bags and Amazon boxes. More than once he fell asleep during therapy and Steve had to be called in to collect him. His doctors said this was probably temporary. Catching up on years worth of sleep. Healing traumatic brain damage that ordinary people could never reverse. Perhaps mental health, they said, as the weeks passed. Some comorbidity with PTSD.

Today Bucky was sleeping in the window seat. It got the sun most of the day and the light picked out the colours in Bucky’s hair and his stubble, his long long eyelashes. One foot stuck out from under the blanket, bare and strangely vulnerable.

Steve was repotting plants on a tarp spread out on the floor. He’d killed more than one houseplant before with sudden long missions away, but he held out hope for these with the Compound staff and now Bucky as well. And maybe it would do Bucky good to have green and living things in here with him. The internet had a lot of things to say about the healing power of plants. Steve certainly felt better with something to do. Little succulents, two-tone dracaena, pothos with splashes of cream on the leaves.

Halfway through, Bucky sat up. There was a pillow mark across his cheek and tangled strands of hair in his face. He looked at the assembled ranks of greenery with bleary eyes.

 _What are you doing?_ he asked.

“I thought some plants would be nice for decoration. It can’t just be your books.”

Bucky’s foot found the floor, joined shortly by its brother. His blanket came with him, tangled up in his limbs. Experimentally, his metal hand fondled the long shiny leaves of a calla lily.

 _Nice_ , he managed to sign, before a huge yawn hit him. Bucky had lost teeth before, he’d been sure about it, but he had a full set now. Steve wasn’t about to yank one of his own molars out to test whether his grew back too.

“You are okay, aren’t you, Buck?” Steve said. He felt like he had to rush to ask to beat Bucky’s heavy eyelids. “You know what I mean,” he added at Bucky’s incredulous look. PTSD, selective mutism, etcetera, etcetera. “I miss you.”

Bucky said nothing, just sank to the floor, folding his legs up. His right hand insinuated itself into Steve’s left, not minding the potting soil.

“It’s okay,” he said in his underused voice. “I’m almost…” He touched his forehead, his temple, his mouth.

“Almost?”

“Getting clearer. All the time.” He took his hand away, looking Steve straight in the eye. It had taken him years to get the colour of Bucky’s eyes right, that tricky shade of grey. “I just need… time.”

“You got it.” Steve nodded at their place, at the Avengers Compound beyond the window. “Sleep as long as you want, sweetheart. You’re safe here.”

“Thanks, darling.”

He took back his hand, but he didn’t go to bed just yet. Instead, he sat with Steve watching him and a comfortable silence filled the room.


	6. Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As #StayHomeWriMo returns so do I. This short story wasn't based on a prompt at all. Enjoy!

Bucky hadn't wanted Steve with him so Steve was back in the kitchen, scrubbing blood off the floor. It was cold water for blood, less important for tiles, but he’d saved more than one shirt that way back in the day. Water ran over the tiles, pooling in the spaces between. A hint of bleach reached Steve’s nose. Down here he could also see little flashes of red on the cabinets. He’d do that after the countertops and the floor. He didn’t want Sam or Bucky to slip in here.

They were in Bucky’s room, the door open. Even now, Steve felt the urge to look in, but Bucky hadn’t wanted him there. Could barely look at him. But Sam would do a good job.

The image of Bucky floated above the pinkish water. The shell-shocked look to his face, blood running down his mouth and chin. Wherever he’d been, it hadn’t been crouched in their kitchen. When Steve shouted his name, he’d jerked to his feet, right hand showering little red droplets of blood. It had taken another long five seconds for him to come back, for the hastily-snatched kitchen knife to fall from his hand. What Steve hadn’t realised about this therapy thing is that in teaching new coping methods there was a chance that old ones could resurface. What particular horror in the long parade of horrible things that had happened to Bucky made him want to chew his own fingers off? 

“Steve.”

Sam was calling. Steve knew that deceptively calm and quiet tone and he dropped the brush. There was a little blood still on his hands, and he scrubbed them quickly in the kitchen sink. Sam stood in the doorway to Bucky’s room, still keeping an eye on the inside.

“He changed his mind. You want to come in?”

It seemed like a pointless question: Steve wanted to come in, of course he did, but asking questions like that was important. Consent was important.

“Sure,” said Steve.

Bucky was sat by the window in his favourite reading chair, totally rigid. His right hand was held out, one end of his dressings hanging free. There was blood still in his stubble and on his shirt. Sam had wiped away most of the rest. As Steve approached, Bucky looked up and then ducked his head.

“Hi, honey,” said Steve, kneeling down. He wasn’t sure what to say. Would “you scared me” be too accusatory? Would “why” be too much for him right now? Instead, he said, “You want me to fix that for you?”

Bucky’s tongue appeared briefly, moistening his lips. His mouth moved, something in his throat trembled. In the end, he extended his hand, still with his gaze fixed firmly away.

“Thank you.”

He tried not to touch Bucky as much as possible. He’d been getting better, hand-holding, brief hugs, but the amount he could tolerate varied from day-to-day. On good days, he could even ask for a hug or a touch. On bad days, not so much. In a few minutes, Bucky’s hand was firmly wrapped, hiding the mangled flesh. Sam had done the best he could with steri strips, but most of the work would be done by the serum. Hydra had a lot of documentation about Bucky’s healing abilities.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart.” Very recently, Steve had kissed Bucky again for the first time. It had only been a chaste thing, a soft press of lips to the top of his head, but Bucky had asked for another just thirty minutes later. “You want a glass of water?”

Nod.

Bucky’s room had a tiny bathroom attached, hastily added for him in the round of finishing touches. There was a glass in there and Steve filled it. The water was cool and clean, with no traces of pink. A little of Bucky’s blood was trapped under Steve’s fingernail. He couldn’t catch anything off Bucky, but he’d scrub it later.

“Hey, hey, man. It’s okay.”

Bucky had come alive and he was circling his chest repeatedly with a closed fist.  _ Sorry, sorry, sorry. _ Over and over again  _ sorry _ .

“It’s not your fault, Bucky.”

Steve stood there with the water feeling more than a little inadequate. Bucky switched signs, hand to his forehead then twisted out so the palm faced forward.  _ Sorry. I don’t know. _

***

Later, the argument went like this.

“No, Sam.”

“Steve, the situation had escalated. You got that mission in three days.”

“Then I won’t go, I’ll stay with him.”

“And the day after that and after that? Steve, you’ll burn out.”

“Bucky’s not a kid, Sam. He doesn’t need a babysitter.”

“He’s not a kid, but he is a vulnerable adult. One that’s exhibited self-harming behaviour for reasons he doesn’t know or understand. These people are trained professionals who can take care of him. He can’t go on monitors right now. He’s having enough trouble leaving his room.”

“Sam-”

“I know your MO, Steve. But you can’t do it by yourself.”

***

Tina was a young black lady who introduced herself to Bucky with a graceful  _ good morning _ in sign language. Joe was ex-military, getting thicker around the waist as he headed into middle age. His  _ good morning  _ was less practised. Bucky did the sign back, unable to meet their eyes. His right hand was still stiff but Steve saw the wounds were better when he changed his dressings.

“Do you think you’ll get along?” asked Steve after the one-hour intro session. “It’s okay if you don’t think so, that’s what the session’s for.”

Bucky’s face was calm and solemn. That meant there was something else going on in there, but for once Steve couldn’t tell what it was. He consented to Tina and Joe though.

***

It had been a smooth mission. This wasn’t disloyalty to Bucky, but down to most of the AIM agents being blind drunk. A birthday party apparently with a skeleton crew left on guard. What it meant though was a ninety-minute flight there, two hours of sweeping up, leaving just ninety more minutes to go until Steve was with Bucky again.

But five minutes after takeoff, a call came through on Steve’s phone.

“We lost him,” said a tearful Tina on the line. “We can’t find Bucky.”

“You…” said Steve, the single syllable stuck in his mouth. After Washington and the plunge into the Potomac, he’d lost Bucky for a year. He’d tracked him all over the world, almost single-mindedly. He couldn’t have… He couldn’t have lost him again. He should’ve stayed home. He felt light-headed.

“What do you mean ‘we lost him’?” he said in a voice that didn’t sound like his.

“He was watching TV and Joe was in the bathroom and I was making him a shake and I turned away for one second. I didn’t hear a thing.”

“Have you asked FRIDAY?”

“Yes, but-” A flurry of conversation. Steve recognised Joe’s deep voice. “She says we don’t have privileges for that.”

Sam held up his phone, mouthing ‘phone's off’ at him.

“Try the gym,” said Steve, heart seized in his chest. “Or the grounds. I’ll try and contact him.”

The quiet click seemed very loud in the Quinjet.

“I’ll try and patch through to FRIDAY here,” said Natasha at the controls, immediately flicking switches.

“Let me know if you can override it,” said Steve. That light feeling was gone. There was only the utter certainty that he needed to find Bucky. “Sam, keep trying his cell. He left under his own power, we know that. I’m going to call my office.”

As he tapped at his phone, he was suddenly struck with the thought of Bucky in some hidden corner, fingers reduced to gnawed bone and stripped metal. Even in that year searching, he’d never wished himself by Bucky’s side harder than he did now.

***

No one had reached Bucky by the time the Quinjet landed. Steve had reached an entirely calm state, mentally mapping out the surrounding woodland for places Bucky might go. From the look on Tina’s face as they landed, the search would continue.

“I’m sorry, Captain, I’m so sorry,” she said when she saw him. Like Bucky she did the sign as well, fist circling her chest, and Steve couldn’t be mad at that.

“You’ve checked the entire Compound?”

“Except for the restricted building there and medical.” She pointed at them. “You said he had a phobia and the medical staff checked for us.”

“Okay,” said Steve, “Sam, I need you in the air. We’ll sweep the Compound first and then branch out. Nat, can you check if there are any vehicles missing from the lot? I’ll start with-”

There was a flash of motion up on the roof of the support staff building. Steve was drawn to it, barely daring to hope. But it was Bucky who appeared. He came down, using his metal fingers to create handholds. His bandaged hand was full of paperwork. His fingers were all present and correct.

“Bucky!” he called, picking up speed in case he ran. He didn’t. He met Steve halfway and Steve noted the fact that he veered around Joe in a wide circle even by Bucky’s standards. He was about to say something - “I was worried” or “Are you okay” or “What the hell” were all possible candidates - but Bucky cut him off by wrapping his arms around him. Suddenly he was small again, seeing Bucky off to war. He was in Italy and clinging to Bucky as hard as he could without hurting him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Bucky’s papers in Sam’s hands and when had that happened?

“I thought you’d gone for good, baby,” he said into Bucky’s shoulder and when Bucky shook his head, his hair tickled. Under Steve’s gentle hand on his back, he was cool. Had he been up on the roof all this time?

“Steve,” said Sam. He had the papers fanned out in his hands. “You should look at this.”

***

Here’s how it was explained through Bucky’s stiff sign language and FRIDAY’s interjections.

One hour after Steve had left in the Quinjet, Bucky had been sat on the couch watching TV when Joe had passed by a window. Suddenly a memory surfaced: red sigils on black, the sour taste of old beer, sleek gunmetal grey weapons, and Joe’s face leering from the crowd. So Bucky had slipped away - formerly the world’s deadliest ghost - and had set about proving it. He forbade FRIDAY from revealing his location and with her help he’d gathered together hacked emails, old photos, and, of all things, Facebook posts. Then once he had his bundle of printouts, he’d evaded capture for a few hours and waited for Steve.

***

“You were amazing today,” Steve said.

Bucky sat opposite him, mopping up the last of his sauce with a crust of bread. He’d smuggled a few energy bars from the common area up onto the roof with him, but he’d come down hungry. Thank goodness he had a choice of solid foods to choose from.

“All that stuff you did with FRIDAY. Tony won’t believe it when I tell him.”

“It was mostly her,” said Bucky and Steve realised he hadn’t heard his voice in a few days. “I just told her what to do. I needed evidence.”

“You could have told me or Sam. We’d have believed you.”

Bucky shook his head, focussed on the last bite of bread he was running round the plate.

“I needed… I don’t remember doing that to my fingers or even why. After that… I had something to prove.”

“You got nothing to prove, Bucky. Not to me, not to anyone.”

Bucky popped his piece of bread in his mouth, extending his free hand towards Steve. He took it, mindful of all those bandages. Sam had changed them and they were white and clean.

“I love you like crazy, you know.”

“I know,” said Bucky.

***

Steve stepped out of his bathroom to find Bucky hovering in the door. He was dressed for sleeping too and had one of his massive sherpa fleece blankets over his shoulders. Like Steve, he hated the cold.

“What’s up, Buck? You okay?”

“Yes,” he said, shrugging deeper into his blanket. He stood there, working over the words and Steve sat down at the end of the bed to wait.

“Can I sleep here?” he said finally, suddenly shy.

They’d slept separately all this time, but still, Steve had started sleeping on one side of the bed, leaving the other free for when Bucky might want to try. One bedside table with an empty drawer for Bucky’s things.

“Sure, Buck.”

Bucky went round to the other side, the one Steve thought he would want, the one furthest from the door. He didn’t climb under the covers - Steve didn’t take it personally - but climbed on top, pulling his blanket over him.

“You comfortable?” Nod. “Need anything else?”

“No. This is good.”

Bucky slept on his back or on his right side so he didn’t sleep on his metal arm. On his side like that, he was facing Steve. Carefully, Steve climbed under the covers, looking at the narrow slice of Bucky’s face visible over his blanket. Once upon a time, they’d slept in the same bed every night, ostensibly because they could only afford one, but they pressed up against each other skin-to-skin and nothing outside that little world had mattered.

“Steve?”

“Don’t worry, Buck.” Steve hoped he’d still be there come morning. When he opened his eyes, he wanted the first thing he saw to be Bucky. “Good night, sweetheart.”

“Good night.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently Camp Nanowrimo-ing a sequel to Grace too. Luckily I have a lot of free time, so shorts will still be coming too.


	7. The Way We Love Something Small

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go to poets.org and find a poem (it’s free!) and read it aloud. Then take a line from the poem as your prompt and make it your first or last line.

Dear Steve,

You notice how people don’t write letters like they used to? It’s all texts and emails now. Don’t get me wrong, darling, I don’t miss cramming everything I had to say on one of those V-mail sheets and having to watch what I said for reasons I don’t have to tell you. But when I got one of those back it was like you were there with me, even though it was only a copy of what you wrote me.

Even though people don’t write letters like they used to, therapists are all over it. I must’ve written a dozen letters that I’m not meant to send. This is my first one to you and that’s probably why I’m writing this in my therapy journal. I didn’t like the thought of throwing something of you away. And this one is different from all the other letters, this is part of me being thankful for things, all positive and no negative, baby. I’ve written lists before, lots of lists. Lots of things to be grateful for.

Being grateful for me’s the hardest, and if I end up showing this to you one day I know what you’re going to say right now. This is going to be positive, I promise. Sometimes I like this body, it can run forever, it’s strong, and I know you like looking because I catch you sometimes. But sometimes I don’t like that people did this to me, changed me without my consent, and not just the arm. I feel like I shouldn’t enjoy being fit and healthy because it was done so I could do a lot of bad shit for bad people. I wasn’t strong enough to escape for so long. But sometimes I can love this body because this body is like yours. And I love you.

I still remember you as I first knew you. I hear somebody cough and it takes me right back. You probably don’t remember this (which is a change, right?) but someone called Father Ryan in to give you the Last Rites. You had flu and you sounded like you were gasping your last, but I wouldn’t let him in. Half the reason we moved out when you were well enough was the neighbours kept giving me the evil eye after hearing me argue with him in the hall. But I was right and he’s probably dead now, so that’s that.

***

Across the room, Steve stretched. Bucky watched him, pen poised above the page. If he was half the artist Steve was, he’d try and capture him all unguarded like that. Steve had done plenty like that of Bucky.

“One more email, Buck, and then we’re free for the day.” He smiled at him, which just lit up the room. Bucky couldn’t help but smile back and it was like he lit up too. “How about we take our lunch outside today?”

“Sounds good,” said Bucky. “I just got to finish this.”

“I’ll race you,” said Steve, immediately starting up at the keyboard.

***

Darling, you’ve made this into a race so I’ll stop meandering. I loved you when you were small and I love you now you’re big. You’re gentler now, did you know that? Back then you felt you had so much to prove. It’s better to be strong enough to be gentle. 

I think knowing you changed me for the better. Not just saving me from mind-control. You were small, but you wormed in there and you didn’t let me be anything less than the best, whatever that might be. You were tiny enough to change me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The line I used was 'tiny enough to change me' from the poem 'The Way We Love Something Small' by Kimberly Blaeser


	8. Victory Mail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those this is a mix of two prompts - one for writing and one for an IRL activity.
> 
> Make lists: food you love, foods that make your stomach crawl; books you have loved to re-read and books that you can’t move past page 3; songs that you know all the words to and songs that you associate with something bad. Then give your protagonist some of these likes and dislikes in a scene.
> 
> Create a self-soothing box of your favourite items and memories.

Steve looked up at the tapping on his office door and grinned to see Bucky standing there.

“Hi, baby.”

“Hi.” 

Bucky came in, taking a look around Steve’s office. He’d helped decorate when the Avengers moved upstate: some of the wartime sketches Steve claimed from the Smithsonian; the compass with a lock of dark hair hidden behind a circle of newspaper; photos of him, Bucky, and other Avengers. Bucky had never met Thor or Bruce Banner, so these people were mysteries he only knew through Steve’s stories.

 _Were you feeling lonely without me?_ asked Steve, hands moving smoothly through the signs.

 _Missed you like oxygen, baby_ , said Bucky. “And I wanted to use your printer.”

Steve laughed. He pressed a button on the printer which was as sleek and modern as the rest of the office furniture.

“Go ahead.”

“Thanks.”

Since he was already on one therapy task, he bent down and kissed Steve on the cheek. Casual touches like that were vital stepping-stones on the way to fix his touch issues entirely, or at least get him to a functioning level. Plus it was just nice to smell Steve’s lotion, his shampoo and feel him smile.

“If that’s what I get, you can use my printer any time you like.”

Bucky deposited himself on the sofa, on which he’d spent many hours napping during his housecat phase. Long enough that Steve used to keep a pillow and a folded blanket in here. As he sent the files from his phone, he stretched out, luxuriating in the companionable quiet. He knew Steve had noticed when he turned to the tray.

“Are these our V-mail letters?” He picked one up, reading the cramped lines of his own handwriting. ' _Things are going well at the moment, I picked up some work for the war effort in Jersey, so you don’t have to worry about money, you keep some back for yourself for once._ ' No mention of dangerous medical experiments, the little liar.

“Museum still has scans on their website,” said Bucky.

“I’ve got the original copies if you wanted to read them.” 

“The original copies of the original, you mean.” Bucky got up, gathering all the sheets into his hands. Snatches of sentences stood out, little segments of time between two people a century away and an ocean apart. 

_The tents here still aren’t as cold as our place back home._

_got me travelling all over the place, Buck, I’m collecting postcards when I_

_Thanks for the drawings, Steve, I’m going to ration_

_It’s just a cold, but I’m keeping warm, drinking lots of hot fluids and_

“I needed different copies,” said Bucky, cradling them all against his chest. “It’s a therapy thing.”

“You’re not going to burn them like all those letters are you?”

Bucky shook his head,

“Show you later.”

Steve’s computer pinged twice and he sighed.

“Back to it, I guess.” He turned to the screen and then turned back. “Hey, I’m doing a talk in the city next month. It’s for this at-risk LGBT youth charity, a real small-scale casual thing. You want to come with me?”

 _Not to talk?_ he signed, V-mail under one arm.

“Maybe if I get too nervous to go on stage.”

“You’ve never been afraid to speak your own mind, not in your whole life.” _Not once_ , he added in sign language. Got him into trouble more than once too. “I’ll go. If it’s a good day.”

“Maybe a date afterwards?” Steve did the sign for _date_ as well, a delicate tap of hands, index fingers extended.

“Sure.” _Kiss before I go?_

When Steve was sat down, kissing him was almost like before, if he ignored the broad shoulder under his hand and how warm he was. Same mouth though, same short hairs at the back of his neck. Kissing was still good.

“See you later?”

“Try and stop me, Buck.”

***

After kissing Bucky, emails and security briefings seemed a lot less enticing than home, especially when the rain came in, turning everything outside silvery. When Steve got in, Bucky was over in his reading corner. He deserved to be preserved like that, surrounded by plants, with his hair up in a bun, pen casually stuck behind his ear, making his cosy sweater look like a fashion statement.

“Hi, Steve,” he said. There was a post-it note stuck to the back of his left hand.

“Hi, handsome.”

Bucky snorted, but he looked pleased. He took the pen out from behind his ear and wrote something down on a paper in front of him. He was surrounded by other similar pages as well as his notebook, and a shoebox.

“What’re you up to?” said Steve, taking his jacket off and hanging it up by the door.

“Therapy thing. Making a memory box for self-soothing purposes.”

“And that’s why you wanted our V-mail?”

“Mmm.” He patted the floor next to him.

The papers were all the copies of their letters with penned notes in the margins.

“I needed copies to do this,” said Bucky. “I remember the censors so there was a lot we couldn’t say, but there were references… I think you put them there on purpose because I remember doing it on purpose. Mentioning places and things.”

Steve scanned it. He remembered agonising over the letters, especially when he’d join Project Rebirth. Avoiding the blue ticket was key. But the censor had looked at Steve’s mention of their old place in Red Hook and never knew that he meant the bed there that groaned loudly whenever he spent some time with his sweetheart. Bucky’s appended note said ‘ _that thing was never quiet unless you stuck books and card under the legs_ ’.

“I can’t believe you remembered that bed of all things.”

“Stuff like that was what kept me going out there. It was better having those letters, no matter if there was a risk.”

“I tried doing one where all the first letters of each sentence spelt your name. There’s not a lot of words that begin with ‘U’.”

“I’m ubiquitous,” said Bucky.

“That’s true, I saw you everywhere.” He chucked Bucky under the chin. “You need any help with this?”

“There’s something you could do.” Bucky peeled the post-it off his hand. It was a list. The first entry was ‘V-mail’ and that was crossed out. The next line said ‘Steve letter’.

“I thought,” said Bucky, “you could write something for the box. Like an emergency thing.”

“‘Break glass for letter’?”

“Kind of, yeah. Might not be in the spirit of _self_ -soothing, but...”

“Been a long time since I got to write you a letter. It’ll be fun.”

“Thanks, darling.”

Bucky folded the nearest letter - _It rains a lot in England, but it’s not half as cold as New York_ \- and laid it neatly in the box. One by one they went in, each with Bucky’s notes and a thousand moments in their shared history.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> V-mail's short for Victory Mail, a special process used to communicate with soldiers overseas. The original letter would be photographed, copied to film, and then printed again at the destination. Hence why Bucky calls them "The original copies of the original". This method meant that thirty-seven mail sacks could be reduced to one, saving space and weight.


	9. I Met You Again In Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Describe the setting of your work, but only in terms of distance and landmarks. For example: She headed out of the county on the two-lane road, passing the Richards’ abandoned dairy farm and not bothering to brake at the four-way stop near Snellville. Write five in 15 minutes, and choose two to include in your work

Some of the other fellas had gone down to the stream for a drink or to wash the dirt off. The water was cold enough to make your back teeth ache so most of them went back to the group just as filthy as before. Bucky took a drink then stood perfectly still. There was more snow here on the bank where the trees were thinner. Chunks of ice bobbed past in the black water. Bucky crossed the stream in one stride and there was one a couple more steps until he was up into the forest.

Out here it was pitch-black in a way Bucky had never seen in New York. Branches covered in needles brushed his face and arms. The wind made a soft moaning noise and lifted the hair at the back of his neck. He thought he'd been cold back home when frost started to form on the inside of the window, but now he felt like ice right down to the core. He sped up, pushing greenery aside, teeth clenched. Suddenly he was through and into a slight clearing. Here the forest floor dropped away into a modest ridge, exposed rock falling away into miles and miles of trees.

“Hey, Buck.”

Bucky jumped. He was suddenly aware of what he looked like - scratched up, filthy, and wide-eyed. Steve moved closer. Bucky felt a wave of vertigo just watching Steve’s face on this stranger’s body.

“What’re you doing out here?”

“Couldn’t tell you why.” Bucky shoved his hands into his armpits to stop them shaking. “I just had to move.”

“Well, you chose a good place to end up.” Steve stepped closer, taller than Bucky now, and looked up. The sky was crowded with stars, beautiful and far-away.

“So what happened?” said Bucky.

“Oh,” said Steve. “Well joining the army wasn’t a lie.” He rubbed the back of his head, a move Bucky had seen a thousand times before. “I got picked up by something called Project Rebirth. They had a procedure meant to make a perfect soldier.” He gestured to himself. “They needed a subject.”

“So you just let them use you as a guinea pig? You _idiot_!” Bucky shoved him right in the chest, feeling Steve take a step back. “You absolute fucking idiot. I told you to stay safe! I told you not to do anything stupid! And what do you do right after you leave? Sign yourself up for medical experimentation. Did you even think about what would have happened if it had gone wrong? Did you think what I would’ve done-”

Just as quick as it had come, all of Bucky’s anger left him and he was left panting big, white plumes of breath. He felt hot now, but his fingertips were still numb with the cold.

“I’ve… I’ve known you since I was six years old. And I said goodbye to that guy thinking I’d see you again… What makes a perfect soldier anyway? What else did they change?”

“Perfect health, Buck. The ability to serve.”

“And what did they get rid of?” said Bucky. Looking across at Steve’s face on the body of the ideal fighting man. And what did the ideal fighting man want? Skirt. Long, stockinged legs and long hair. Perfumed soft bodies.

“Aw, Buck.” Steve reached out and oh Christ his hands were so warm now. He closed his eyes to savour it. “Nothing important. I’m still me.” His thumbs brushed the arc of Bucky’s cheekbones. “I’m still your fella.”

“Still don’t need me to look after you.” There wasn’t a wobble in Bucky’s voice, not at all. “You sure?”

“I experimented. Life on the road was lonely, but I got plenty of imagination.” Bucky was suddenly picturing this new Steve in some hotel bed making the same faces. One hand between his legs, muffling his noises into the other. “It was always you.”

“I wouldn’t have minded if you found a fella. Or even a girl.”

“I know what you said. But you would’ve minded. And I would’ve minded too.”

Bucky trapped Steve’s hands with his, feeling the warmth worm back in. 

“Christ, why’d we even say shit like that?” Bucky opened his eyes and there was his fella’s face, those blue eyes with a little green, that soft pink mouth, that big nose. “I don’t want you stepping out with someone else.”

“We’ve never said goodbye like that before.”

Bucky dragged him close and kissed him savagely. Their teeth clashed and the angle felt strange, but warm, warm, warm. Bucky had never gone this long without seeing Steve. Not even when he’d been up in the scarlet fever ward.

Too soon, Steve pulled away.

“Bucky, if we don’t stop…”

“Soon,” said Bucky, his hand clenched in Steve’s jacket.

“Soon. I promise.” He squeezed him tight and let him go. But he was standing just there. Bucky could reach out and touch him.

“This is real, right?” he said as they started to move back through the trees to the convoy. “I’m not still in that place?”

“You’re here with me, Bucky.”

Steve reached over and squeezed Bucky’s arm. He’d finally grown into those long artist’s hands of his.

“Stick with me,” said Bucky.

“No more goodbyes.”


	10. The Way to a Man’s Heart; or Bucky’s Memory Box Part II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Write down a dozen words, short and long, then set the timer for ten minutes and anagram as many words as possible. Then use at least half of those new words in the next scene or description you write. For example, in the word TRICKY you have the words TICK, ICY and CITY. In the word BURGER, you have the words URGE, BUG, BEG and ERR."

Steve poked his head in on Bucky twice and both times he was curled up safe and asleep in bed. Checking up wasn’t necessary; his bad turn last night hadn’t been so bad. Without being nursed through it, he’d gotten through it with pacing and his memory box. But still, Steve checked anyway. It was always good to see Bucky looking so far from the gaunt shadow he used to be.

On his third check, mug of coffee in hand, Bucky was stirring awake.

“Morning, Buck,” he said, putting the fortifying fumes of coffee within range.

“Mmm, did I make it?”

“It’s not quite noon yet. Just.”

Bucky sat up, pushing the stray hairs off his face, groping for the coffee with his metal hand. Watching him take his first sip, Steve could only adore him more and more.

“You feeling better?”

“Much."

As if to prove it, he put his coffee down on the bedside table and put his arms around Steve. He smelt like clean sheets and coffee and a little like morning breath.

“It wasn’t anything serious,” he said into Steve’s ear. His warm breath tickled. “Just a bundle of bad memories keeping me awake. I got over it.”

“You did good, honey.”

Bucky sat back up, reclaiming his coffee.

“Is this where you tell me all about how proud you are?”

“But I am. I think you’re aces, pal. Just the tops.”

Bucky snorted, almost in danger of splashing himself.

“You giant dope.” He slid both his legs out and got out of bed. His pyjama pants had little white stars on them. Sam had also got him Captain America shield ones as a gag gift last Christmas. Steve wasn’t sure but he might get royalties off them. “C’mon, I need some breakfast.”

Bucky was standing at the fridge, passing Steve the bacon and eggs when he said,

“I have an idea.”

“About what?”

“About more stuff to add to the box.” He peered out from the fridge. “Recipes I remember eating, pictures of meals and stuff.”

“That’s a good idea, Buck. Dr Eubanks is giving you an A+ for this.”

“Does your therapist grade you?” Bucky opened a container of butter, eyeing up the dregs inside. “Hey, what about your Ma’s apple cake?”

Whenever Steve thought about that cake, he was brought back to a dozen birthdays, a handful of Easters, and one memorable birthday when Bucky kissed him for the first time. He’d tasted of that cake.

“I never seen you make it before,” said Bucky, putting the empty carton aside for recycling.

“I tried a couple of times. Hey, start the bacon for me.”

Steve remembered where he left his notes, tucked up in a fat cookbook between a recipe for glazed sticky pork and pork chops. He pulled them out, looking at the familiar crossing-outs and corrections.

“More than a couple,” said Bucky. He relinquished his place at the pan to look through the printed pages. “Never got it down?”

“They weren’t right. But it’s fine. I remember that time on the roof and that’s enough for me.”

“That’s how you cope, is it?” 

Bucky pressed a kiss to his cheek, warm and sweet. Later, Steve gave him an extra rasher of bacon.

***

But Bucky kept thinking of Mrs Rogers’ apple cake and the idea spread. Find the right apple cake recipe, make the cake, present it to Steve. End result, a happy Steve. Even happier than that time Bucky darned all his socks for him. There was even a perfect gap in his schedule where he could set his plan in motion. Steve had a meeting in the city next week, a boring, all-day marathon of a meeting. Seeing cake after that would make Steve extra happy for certain. In the meantime, Bucky did some clandestine research.

When the day came he had three likely recipes lined up, each one with inexpensive ingredients that Sarah Rogers would have been able to afford back in the 30s. After waving off his darling with a light heart, he spent a peaceful afternoon mixing and measuring. When the phone call came, he was kneeling in front of the oven watching his cakes through the door.

“Hi, Sam,” he said.

“Are you watching the news?” Sam was yelling. New York must be even louder than Bucky remembered.

“No, I’m cooking.”

“Don’t. Listen to me, Steve’s going to be fine.”

A wave of cold water ran through Bucky’s veins.

“It was AIM agents. Steve got hurt.”

No, no, no, no.

“Bucky,” said Sam and Bucky realised that he was saying that out loud, “He’s okay, remember. He’s unconscious, but he’s fine, we’re jetting in right now.

“I shoulda-”

“You shoulda nothing, Bucky. Come on, sound off for me. What’re you seeing?”

“Oven. Fridge.” Bucky felt his hand trembling and tightened his grip on the phone. “Tiles. Cabinets. Sam, when are you getting here?”

“Five minutes, okay?”

“Five minutes.”

“Want me to stay on the line with you?”

“Yes. Yes, please.” Bucky scrambled to his feet. The nearest jacket was Steve’s and he pulled it on. “I’m going to be waiting.”

***

The Quinjet landed perfectly on the pad and Bucky dug his hands into the pockets of Steve’s jacket. There were medical staff waiting too, an uncomfortably close distance but Bucky was hyperfocused on the jet. The collar of the jacket smelt like Steve. The ramp had never unfolded so slowly, but Bucky was moving before it had hit the ground. The Winter Soldier was strong and fast. He had nothing on Bucky Barnes charging up that ramp. In the jet, there was Sam and he was holding up Steve.

“Hi, honey,” said Steve’s wonderful, familiar voice that was strained with pain.

“Steve!” Bucky stopped short of barreling into Steve, his hands going to Steve’s face, his chest, his shoulders, lightly flitting, checking for injury. Steve caught his right hand, even though the movement made him wince, and squeezed.

“Sorry for scaring you.”

“It’s okay,” Bucky managed to gasp out. “It’s okay.”

He slid under Steve’s arm and it was like he weighed ninety pounds again, like Steve used to be when the heaviest thing about him was the need to prove himself.

***

After longer in Medical than Bucky liked, he finally got to take Steve home. They walked it because Steve was a stubborn asshole who was setting a bad example. But the evening air was peaceful and didn’t smell of hospital. Steve was floating in a happy sea of painkillers, some people having all the luck, and Bucky took solace in his warm hand in Steve’s. Then Bucky opened the door and remembered.

Windows were flung open, FRIDAY was dissuaded from setting off fire suppression measures, and three sad-looking lumps of charcoal were pulled from the oven.

“What were they?” said Steve from his perch on the arm of the couch.

“Apple cakes,” said Bucky staring at the charred surface. “Least they were.”

He tipped all three into the bin, putting the tins next to the sink to clean. Steve half-stumbled into the kitchen.

“Sit down, baby, you shouldn’t be up.”

“Did you make those to find my Ma’s recipe?”

“Yeah.” Bucky shrugged, “Didn’t go so well.”

“Aw, Buck.” 

Steve going in for a hug in this state was like a glacier, slow but inexorable. Bucky supported him around the waist and back and leant into it.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Bucky knew for a fact that just last week, Wanda had saved Steve from falling down the side of a building but he’d take the compliment.

“That a fact?”

“I’d like to taste them when you try again.” Steve was doing his level best to stand up straight but wasn’t quite getting there. “And even if they’re not Ma’s then they’ll be yours. Just as good.”

“You won’t get any if you squash me, darling.” With a heave, Bucky got Steve up and heading towards the couch.

“I love you, Buck.”

“I know.” Steve took a seat heavily, blinking up at him with a dumb grin on his face. Painkillers. “I’ll say it back if you promise to behave.”

Steve did the sign for _promise_ , a finger to his lips and a flat hand on top of his left fist.

“I love you, Steve.”

That made him happy, so happy that Bucky wasn’t even going to ask what stupid thing he did this time. At least not until the pills wore off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here are the words and the anagrams that I ended up using.
> 
> collapse - cope, pal, solace  
> provoke - prove, pork  
> cover - over  
> floor - roof, for  
> strip - sip, tip  
> necklace - ace, kneel, clean  
> standard - darn, stand, star  
> satisfied - aside, idea  
> dangerous - adore, dregs, nursed  
> magnitude - eating, agent, giant, gaunt  
> opinion - noon  
> budge - bed, due


	11. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Name the fear that holds you back from creating your best work. Shine a light on it. Examine it. Write it down on a piece of paper. If you need to hold a ceremony and burn it, do that. If you need to pin it to the wall above your desk to remind yourself that you can conquer it, do that. If you need to stab it to death, definitely do that. Whatever it takes, you have to excise that fear otherwise it will grow like a virus and overwhelm your creativity."

Dear Steve,

Here’s a secret, darling. When I got something to work out mentally, I explain it to somebody else in my head. Not in a ‘voices in my head’ way, darling, that’s not one of my problems. No, I just picture someone like you, or Sam, or Humphrey Bogart, and I work through it like a conversation. You’ve got no idea how many of this kind of letter I’ve shredded.

So this week, Dr Eubanks told me to do something that sounds simple. I got to write down my biggest fear and then get rid of it. Like burn it, or shred it, pin it to a wall. I say it’s simple, but it’s not is it? I got a lot of fears.

First of all, I got losing you. That’s a big one, but you’re not surprised, are you, honey? Thing is, it’s not as frightening as it once was. We got separated once and you parachuted behind enemy lines to find me. Got separated again on the train and both of us were too damn stubborn to die. Third time, I found myself coming back just to drag your ass out of some trouble with robots.

There’s being taken by Hydra, going back to being their assassin, but I got my Avengers tracking chip. You could find me again from anywhere in the world. And when I think of all the people who hurt me over the years, I remember most of them are dead. Put a few of them in prison, a few more in the grave (and writing that one down means I’m definitely burning this afterwards).

I’m not giving any speeches soon, but that was more your forte. And I can’t look Eubanks in the face and say that my biggest fear is public speaking. She’s got my files.

Disassociation is one. Forgetting who I am and sinking back into the Asset’s personality. But if I forget, I know you’d bring me back. You’d drag me back kicking and screaming, and I’ve done plenty of that. 

Gotten so much better at touching too, right?

***

Bucky put his pen in his mouth and meditatively looked down at his letter. He’d known this would be hard, but for a different reason. He wasn’t supposed to dismiss all his long-held fears so easily.

“If you frown like that your face will get stuck.”

Bucky turned his scowl on Steve but since he was carrying a large buttery bowl of popcorn, Bucky decided to forgive him. He dropped his pen into his lap and reached for a handful.

“Seventy years of pain and this is how I’m treated,” he sniffed.

“I can offer you popcorn to make up for it.” Steve sat down, moving the bowl between them. “What’s bugging you?”

“Therapy,” said Bucky around his mouthful, “I don’t know what to write.”

“I could help.”

Why not? Imaginary Steve had already sat patiently and listened. Real-life Steve could do the same.

“I’m supposed to name my biggest fear, but I can’t do it. I think of one and then I think of three reasons I shouldn’t be scared of it. All of them seem… small.”

“Isn’t that the point?”

“Of what?”

“Therapy.” Steve nodded down at Bucky’s notebook with its well-thumbed pages. “It gives you coping skills and then you start to feel better. Maybe you’re finding it hard because you’ve worked through them.”

Bucky tried to remember the last nightmare he had, the last panic attack, the last time he’d refused to touch or be touched by Steve. They all seemed so far away.

“Oh,” he said. “Oh.”

He leant against Steve, letting him cuddle closer.

“You really think so?” said Bucky.

“I think you’d have never done this a couple of years ago.”

“Huh.”

Steve’s hand settled on his shoulder, stroking up and down to hear the metal plates click,

“It’s what you’ve been working for isn’t it?”

“I guess part of me didn’t think I could.” Bucky looked up, his chin on Steve’s chest. “I’d have settled for semi-stable.”

“Over-achiever.” 

Steve kissed him. The Bucky of before - he of the huge, sunken eyes and prominent ribs, and he of the clockwork mind and bloody hands - couldn’t even have imagined this. Gold ring on Steve’s finger, two small golden plates on Bucky’s left hand. Bowl of popcorn and a movie on TV. Without Bucky noticing, his fears had crept off to unused corners and died there.

He was at peace.


	12. Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Open a book to a random page, and look at the first word of the page. Then, write a short story based on that word."

Bucky’s hands had picked Steve out of the dirt that day they first met. They’d patched him up, stroked his back during asthma attacks, worked harder and longer than anyone else. They’d lain one beside the other on Steve’s chest to pull him close and stave off the winter chill. They’d killed, but they’d also helped.

Steve adored them both.

He walked through the front door to find Bucky had shed his suit in record time. That wasn’t a surprise. Bucky had been on edge for the last twenty minutes of the press event, back pressed against the wall, using other Avengers as shields. The expression of relief that had crossed his face when they left had been obvious. Now he looked much more relaxed in his sweatpants and hoodie, his shirt thrown over his arm.

“Button fell off,” he said by way of explanation.

“In a hurry to change?”

“Mm.” Bucky took the sewing kit out of his pocket, propping it open on his knee. “I thought I was supposed to be frightening, why are they trying to talk to me?”

“I thought you were very handsome.”

“Is that what you were talking to Sam about?” But under the grumbling, he was smiling.

The needle was hard to see against the silvery metal of his left hand but Bucky threaded it on the first try. Steve could have gone to change too. Instead, he planted himself on the couch to watch. He could draw Bucky all day, metal arm included. All those metal plates, from the big ones reinforcing his palm to the tiny ones on the tips of his fingers. Who needed a thimble?

“You’re staring,” said Bucky, concentrating on his neat little stitches.

“Did you have fun?” said Steve. “You were getting a little stiff at the end.”

Bucky shrugged one shoulder.

“The food was nice. And if I don’t want to talk to someone I _can’t_ , you know? It wasn’t bad.” He bit off the thread, examining his work critically. “I could buy a million of these shirts, but I keep on sewing buttons.”

“Same. But clothes used to be a lot more expensive.”

“And yet you kept bleeding on yours.” He laid his shirt over the arm of the couch, tidying up the sewing kit. “I must’ve searched for a hundred missing buttons.”

Steve reached out, running a finger along the many little plates, watching them shift and click.

“I like watching you sew them back on.”

“Is that one of those little things?”

The metal was cool and smooth and Steve lifted Bucky’s hand to his mouth. He kissed his way across the knuckles and then planted one on the palm. Bucky had less sensation in this hand, but he watched Steve intensely. Once, curled up in bed, all vulnerable eyes and softness, Bucky had confessed to liking that. To see what had been intended as a weapon be treated tenderly was something new he liked, something not from the 40s. Of course, Steve was happy to do it for him, to take metal fingers in his mouth, the taste of it on his tongue, until-

“ _Steve_.”

Then it was time to gather up Bucky and hold him close, to let him flow from _touch-issues_ to _touch-starved._ He’d never get to that point with anyone else, but who needed to see it other than the two of them? 

Bucky lazily tugged on his shirt and Steve kissed him again. They held each other’s hearts in their hands and it wouldn’t be any other way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My book was Gateway by Frederick Pohl, one of my favourite sci-fi novels. Here's the full sentence:
> 
> They were fascinating; they were things that Heechee hands (tentacles? claws?) had made and touched, and they came from unimaginable places incredibly far away.


	13. A Day In The Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was based on a non-creative prompt:
> 
> Make a writing schedule for yourself for the next week.

Since coming to Avengers Tower, you have a therapist. Their job is to teach you _coping strategies_ and _healthy thought patterns_ which means one day you will be human again. The hard stuff will be later when you’re stronger - going somewhere and sitting down with a stranger - and for now, you’re to work on thinking yourself human again. That means body and mind and even the metal arm. You - that is to say, James Buchanan Barnes who goes by Bucky - find this easier some days than others. Also, you have a schedule which helps as well.

Your day is slightly asynchronous to Steve’s but you think of it as beginning at the same time as his which is 6 am. That’s when Steve’s alarm clock sounds and he wakes up. First, he knocks and then pokes his head into your room.

“Morning, Buck,” he says and you wave back.

“How’re you doing?” he askes and you nod or shrug or make whatever expression the day demands.

After Steve’s shower, he helps wheel your IV stand out into the living room with the big windows and the spectacular view of New York City. The stand is for your IV nutrition, which is hooked up to you for sixteen hours a day. While out in the living room, you also get another bag of liquid nutrition for your nasogastric tube. Calorie-wise, it represents a tremendous amount, more than an Olympic athlete or so you’ve been told. You’re up to one hundred and seventy pounds now. Since a sizable portion of that is the arm, it is less impressive than it sounds, but the doctors are happy. So determined was your body to get you to New York that it leeched the very calcium from your bones, put your kidneys in danger, your heart. You’re still very weak.

After Steve’s breakfast, you have your first sleep of the day, a couple of hours or so that ends when Steve interrupts the nightmare. After you calm down, you’re unhooked from the IV for your eight hours of freedom. You use this to go into your room for a while for your secret mission.

Sam Wilson has connected you with a sign language teacher who speaks to you through your laptop. You’re good at it. You speak a dozen languages fluently, or would if you weren’t mute. But still, you haven’t told Steve. You want to be very good, you want to teach Steve and watch his hands move through the signs. Steve think you’re talking to doctors and, when he askes you how it went, you nod while your hands twitch with the urge to speak.

After lunch, Steve does emails for half an hour and then you do something together. You play cards or watch TV or Steve talks to you about your life together before. That last one is your favourite.

Today, Sam Wilson comes up to watch a movie and he bickers with Steve about which one to watch. You watch them, once more on your IV nutrition.

“You’ve not seen Saving Private Ryan?”

“I’ve seen a little,” says Steve. “The first part. But I had to turn it off. It was the fish. Seeing all the dead fish on the beach.”

“Sorry, man.”

“It stunk,” continues Steve, “but sometimes it wasn’t the dead _fish_.” He shook his head. “Let’s pick something cheerful.”

While Sam chooses, you creep a little closer and catch Steve’s eye. Steve understands your intent and he smiles at you. He’s comforted by your mere presence.

The three of you watch Flash Gordon which is colourful and you enjoy it. The man playing Flash isn’t as good as the old one though.

“Buster Crabbe,” says Steve after you relay your question through the tablet and he shows both you and Sam an episode of the old serial. “But Buck Rogers was better,” he adds and he winks at you.

The best part of your day is when Steve goes to bed, shortly after waking you up from your evening sleep. He helps you back to your room and watches you climb onto your bed.

“Good night, Bucky,” he says, “I love you.”

And to this, you always nod, because it’s true and you love him too.


End file.
